Contemplation​in Action:Missionary Thoughts Of The Week

​Two different times, the Book of Psalms uses this phrasing: “You have fed us with tears for our bread.” Seeing how we are an apostolate concerned with spiritual food, this is a matter of interest for our Missionaries, and is our thought for this week.

A powerful emotional relationship underlies this poetry. “You have fed us…” suggests dependency, particularly that of a child. “Bread” is a universal symbol of comfort and plenty. “Tears for our bread,” then, would be a shocking, even hurtful substitution. Do we assume the psalmist is lamenting that God seems to be sending tribulation instead of peace? Yes, in strictly historical terms. It certainly resonates with those times when we, too, have suffered with things beyond our control and wondered how we ended up with bitter herbs when we expected our daily bread. But let’s linger here, since we know both poetry and Scripture speak on as many layers as humans are complex.

Let’s think about tears. They are salty… wet… warm. An outward sign of our interior emotion.

We most often associate tears with sorrow, but they can also come with laughter, surprise, anger… actually, anywhere that emotions become more intense than our words can express.

We’ve all heard that human beings are the only creatures who shed tears of emotion. We are also programmed to recognize tears as a signal for our attention, starting the moment a child is born. Infants and children rarely suppress their tears, and adults dutifully respond. A gradual shift comes as children mature. Instead of crying easily, adolescents – despite having intense emotions – increasingly feel the need to hide their tears as an act of independence. This is a useful way to practice self-regulation and coping, but it should not imply failure if tears slip out. In fact, it is equally useful to see how peers are moved to compassion when they see you in a moment of high emotion. Adults probably shed the least tears of all the various age groups, but healthy adults still do cry as a part of living, and friends still (usually) respond with care when tears are spotted.

​People with autism have a strained relationship with tears.

Some cry easily because they experience their emotions with greater intensity.

Others experience their emotions academically – but no less authentically – and do not show much facial expression, so can be unfairly labeled apathetic, stoic, or believed to be “taking things remarkably well” without anyone actually checking to see if this is true.

Some fear crying because it physically hurts and feels overwhelming.

Others have internalized the social nuances which ridicule crying, and so hold themselves to unrealistic standards (“I must never cry.”)

As you read over this list, it should occur to you that we could remove the words “with autism” and it would still apply to many. Difficulty crying is an “anyone” thing, just as tears themselves are not exclusively an autism thing. People with autism cry for exactly the same reasons as do everyone else. In fact, we’re all familiar with phrases like these (and they didn’t originate on the autism spectrum):

E.G.: “I fought back tears.” Why? Did they pose immediate danger? Did your body produce them as an act of aggression?

E.G.: “This song always makes me cry.” Makes you? As in, coercion? You have no active part in listening, thinking, feeling, wishing…?

E.G.: “Oh, I must have something in my eye.” Really. Wait – yes, you do. It’s your humanity. And it’s nothing to be ashamed of.

​Do tears really make us that vulnerable?

Well… yes.

Crying happens when our NEED can no longer be experienced alone.

Crying is not designed to be done in secret. When we cry alone, tears themselves are all we have – just salt and water, which nourishes no-one (and would be toxic if that were all we consumed).

When we allow someone to know our need, however, we give them a gift: the chance to respond, with leaven (= that which moves them to rise), balm (= oil) and sweetness (= sugar) to soothe our distress. Their acts of comfort need be nothing fancy, just simple solidarity – the grains of our experiences mixing with theirs, milling together in a shared moment of understanding (= flour). The warmth of our tears plus the warmth of their giving completes the gesture, and all the components of (spiritual) bread are in place. Tears DO become bread when we share them with others.

It’s true.

[ God feeds us with tears for our bread ] --> No! -->God feeds us with tears, for our bread.

Note the insertion of the comma. That comma changes everything, and can be put there with a simple act of our consent. It takes a lamentation and turns it into a proclamation.

“God has fed us with tears for [= instead of] our bread” -> becomes -> ​“God has fed us with tears [= which contain necessary ingredients], for our bread.”

So, then. Our need, expressed in our tears, can feed our souls and can feed the souls of others…

Unless we reject crying.

Unless we reject others seeing our tears.

Unless we fail to see the tears of others (deliberately, or by not thinking to look).

Unless others fail to see our tears (deliberately, or by not thinking to look).

Unless autism impacts or impairs our ability to shed tears.

Unless autism impacts or impairs our ability to respond to tears.

Each of these “unlesses” can be changed… worked on… remedied… and transformed, as part of our spiritual commitment as Missionaries, including those last two. Autism DOES impact one’s ability to shed tears, and autism DOES impact one’s ability to respond to tears. But, if we take the impact autism has on our ability to cry and respond to crying, and consecrate it [dedicate it to serving God-in-others]… the ensuing love [CARITAS] will make that impossible task possible.

And so, for this week’s thoughts, we ask you to ponder this idea deeply. Pull it apart, question it. Knead it. Let it rest. Let it rise in your heart.